


feeling my way through the darkness (guided by a beating heart)

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, Darcy Lewis is The Winter Soldier, F/M, Female Friendship, Female Protagonist, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Personal Growth, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-03 07:25:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4092235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcenia "Darcy" Lorraine Lewis, eldest daughter of two, best friend to Steve Rogers, A-student, a soldier, an American. It wasn't who she was, not really, not anymore. But she was someone. Not The Asset. Not The Winter Soldier. Just someone. And she was going to find out who.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. who the hell is darcy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **prompt** : ooh, a darcy as the winter soldier fic please? i really liked you other fic where darcy was bucky and jane was steve. but maybe this time she's bucky and steve is steve and bucky's like jane's intern or something? darcy/buck or darcy/steve pnty (that's please n thank you (✿◠‿◠) ) - **anonymous** ([Tumblr](http://www.sarcasticfina.tumblr.com))
> 
>  **polyvore** : darcy [[1](http://www.polyvore.com/winter-darcy/set?id=163779573)]
> 
> Title from **Avicii** 's " ** _Wake Me Up_**."

**i**.

She spent too much time in the museum, her head down, eyes darting, checking exits and security in between trying to read the write-ups spread all over. There was a desperation in her, clawing at her insides, eager to learn, to know for sure. Another part of her warned her not to; an icy voice telling her she would only lose whatever she gained. But here she stood, lingering, soaking up the information printed for all to see.

Darcenia "Darcy" Lorraine Lewis, eldest daughter of two, best friend to Steve Rogers, A-student, a soldier, an American.

She stared at the smile beaming back at her from a face just like hers and yet younger, softer, emotive.  _Happy_. This was a woman who had no fears, no pain, no handlers. A decorated pilot that had been sent in to get a visual on at an enemy base holding the whole of the 107th hostage, only to be shot down and added to the fray. Her history in the army was displayed there for all to see. Rescued by Captain America and soon a part of an elite team called The Howling Commandos, taking on high risk missions and dismantling HYDRA as they went. Darcy Lewis had been a hero. Someone women admired. Someone they held in high regard and used as an example in the women's right movements. She had been someone people wanted to be like. The idea tore at her.

She stared at the stock footage of her and  _the man_ (from the bridge) (from the helicarrier) (from…?), her arm around his waist, his arm around her shoulders, as they laughed. In the middle of war,  _they laughed_. There were other pictures, of them as children, growing up on the dusty streets of Brooklyn, the same height, just a couple of wily kids, eager for adventure. And others, of her with a little girl and an older woman, a family she didn't know outside of what was written in front of her. She'd been smiling then too, the picture of youth and innocence. A far cry from who she saw now.

She didn't know who Darcy was. She looked at her reflection in the glass and looked at the pictures and it both was and wasn't her. She was the Winter Soldier. The Asset. A trained killer. She was a tool; not a woman, not a daughter, not a friend. She had no name because she was a shadow. She was what lived in the dark and killed without remorse or pause. She was  _Death_.

But she faltered.

_["Darcy?"_

_"Who the hell is 'Darcy'?"]_

Who the hell  _was_  Darcy? That was what she wanted to know.

She might have saved his life, but that didn't mean she wanted to be a part of it.

Right?

Her expression hardened as she left the museum, pulling her ball cap lower on her head, covering her eyes, and tucked her hands in the pockets of the oversized jacket she wore.

She was on the run now, there was no time for lingering to compare the lines of her face with that of the woman who so freely laughed and smiled for all to see.

It wasn't her.

 _It wasn't_.

* * *

The nightmares were the worst. The running she could handle. Moving from city to city, keeping her head down, blending in, she was used to that. But the nightmares… They were awful. Waking up in the middle of the night, terrified, drenched in sweat, her paranoia keeping her on edge, it was exhausting. For days, she would do anything  _but_ sleep, working out to distract herself, taking apart her guns, cleaning them, and putting them back together, anything to keep her occupied. But eventually, sleep would swamp her, and she could find herself tripping down a rabbit hole of pain, manipulation, and rage.

Every kill, every target, every desperate plea, it tumbled inside her brain, eager to pull her apart, to drown her in her mistakes. Their blood was on her hands. Innocent people. People who hadn't deserved it. People who had families and loved ones. It was her fault. She had destroyed them, taken them from the world, left the people that loved them bereft and without. It was her fault. _Her fault_. There was no forgiveness in her dreams.

Every once in a while, she wouldn't see what she'd done, but who she was, memories of her past filtering through her head, of who she used to be, of who the museum had held in such high regard. On those nights, she would wake, gasping for air, a sense of loss and desperation clinging to her. It hurt. It hurt to remember and to wake up feeling like what little she had was already drifting out of reach. It hurt to think that who she'd been was not who she was or who she could ever be again. It just  _hurt_.

She knew he was following her, tracking her down with the efficiency of a bloodhound. Sometimes she lingered, wondering how terrible it would be to let him find her, but then, just as quickly, the panic would sink in, and she would be running out of reach once more. She wasn't sure how long it would go on. How long before he gave up. But as long as that feeling at the nape of her neck told her to run, she would. Until there was nowhere left to go.

* * *

There were safe boxes hidden all over the world, used by HYDRA to fund her when she'd been sent in to do a job. It was a risk to access any of them, but she needed money, and sometimes she felt like tempting fate. There were days when there was no one more than HYDRA that she wanted to be hidden from, and others where she dared them to get close enough so she could quench her rage on their bloody, broken bones. Either they were still too disorganized after they'd been revealed and Rogers had taken down a compromised SHIELD, or they weren't monitoring the safe boxes like they had been, because she was able to clean out two without anybody interrupting or intercepting her.

She used the money to stay in hotels occasionally; so long as they had enough exit points that she felt safe enough hunkering down in them. For the most part, however, the money was used to keep mobile. Stealing a car would bring more attention than she wanted; so she bought one instead, paid in cash, and lit out of town before anyone could ask questions. She drove with no real destination in sight, just as far as she could get.

Sometimes she thought about fleeing the country, finding some warm, sunny place where she could disappear, never to be heard of or found again. She wanted the heat; she wanted constant sun, beating down on her skin. The cold scared her; it seeped into her bones and left her feeling broken and alone. But still, she stayed. Stayed close enough for him to still follow and chase, and she didn't let herself wonder why. Because the answer was all too obvious.

* * *

The dreams were getting clearer, her memory a little less fuzzy. She remembered more and more of the man.  _Steve_. She remembered meeting him, of a little boy with stooped shoulders and a constant wheeze in his voice. He'd been so small, so frail, that she feared a good wind might knock him over. His skin was sallow, so pale it was almost translucent. She could see his veins, blue and vulnerable. Instinctively, she'd wanted to help him, keep him safe, watch out for him.

She couldn't remember words, not exactly, it was just feelings. The feeling that he was hers. Her friend and her brother and her responsibility. She had to keep an eye on him, pull him out of the fire, guard his back, because he was always getting into trouble, always running head first into danger. She could feel it in her bones, frustration and adoration mixed together for a potent feeling of love and dedication.

She remembered what it felt like, her arm slung around his narrow shoulders as they walked down the street. The crooked way he smiled up at her, thin, blond hair falling in his bright, blue eyes, his pointed chin always lifted high, like he was trying to be taller than he really was. She remembered the love in his eyes, the fiercely protective way he always stood right in front of her, puffing up his flat chest against anybody who tried to push them back. She remembered bloodying her knuckles on noses and mouth, socking anybody who tried to push him around, and how he'd blot the blood away with a wet rag, an apology on his face even as he set his mouth stubbornly.

They grew up together, from scrappy little kids to stubborn, headstrong teenagers. She remembered giving him his first kiss when they were just eleven years old; his lips had been dry and chapped, but it was nice and safe. She'd giggled after, wrinkling her nose and shaking her head. She socked him in the shoulder then and he'd just laughed. Steve was her companion; he was her constant.

She felt it when she woke up, as absent as the flesh and blood arm she'd lost. But there was no replacement, nobody else who could fill that spot, and she wondered now if perhaps running was hurting her more than staying would. She was still afraid, still unsure, but at least now she knew, he would never hurt her. He was her sun; the warmth that would eat away the ice from her bones.

* * *

Steve found her in a little back water town, sitting at a bar, knocking back tequila like it was going out of style.

Sweat beaded down his skin, made his shirt cling to him, his hair matted and damp. He crossed the room slowly, worried he might spook her, that she might run as soon as she set eyes on him. Or attack him, with all the brutal ferocity she had learned to survive. Not just HYDRA, but now, on the run, racing away from anything she knew, struggling to live in a world she didn't quite understand.

This wasn't the first time he'd found her since DC. There had been four others where he got close,  _so damn close_ , and then she was gone, before he could point her out to Sam, before he could even take a step in her direction. She was fast (she always had been, outrunning him in every race since they were children, and always eager to do it again) and smart (smartest damn kid in every class, every grade; book smart, people smart. He still remembered that mix of pride and jealousy) and resourceful (she had to be, to get him out of so much trouble growing up, didn't she?).

But this, this was the closest he'd gotten to her in, Christ, nine and a half months.

He wasn't sure what that meant, but the hope clogging up his chest and burning up the back of his throat told him maybe it was good, maybe she was coming around.

Her voice was low with warning as she asked him, "You can't take a hint?"

"Was never too good at that," he answered, fingers curling up into fists when all they wanted to do was stretch out and grab her, pull her in close, hug her until his body stopped shaking. "You might not remember, but—"

"Some."

He paused. Blinked. "You… You remember?"

"I said 'some,' didn't I?" She took another swig of tequila and then tilted her head, as if to ask him to take a seat beside her on the proffered stool.

He was quick to do just that, watching her from the corner of his eyes, trying and failing at being sly. He was usually better at this; could be, if it were a mission, but it wasn't. It was Darcy. His best friend from six years old. His only friend for most of his childhood. Palling around the streets of Brooklyn. Back when she was all knobby knees and frizzy brown hair, only to grow up into a real knock-out. It was her personality he loved though. How quick she was to laugh, how loyal she was, how hard she worked to take care of those she loved. And she'd loved him, fiercely, as much as he loved her. She was the best parts of him and he her. The last few years, without her… He swallowed back the burning emotion, his mouth trembling.

"What…" He coughed to relieve the croaky sound of his voice. "What do you remember?"

She didn't answer right away, instead picking at the label of her tequila bottle with her thumbnail. She used to do that with beer, he thought absently.

"Feelings mostly. And little things… Random bits and pieces… Smells and sounds at first and then flashes. Of you, but smaller, skinnier,  _sick_ , but… big, too. Big heart, big courage, big  _mouth_ …" She nodded, short and stiff.

His mouth tipped up one side. "Yeah…  _Yeah_ , that sounds like me."

He turned in his seat to see her better, staring at her profile. She seemed taller, or maybe it was just the way she was sitting, her spine stiff and straight. Her hair was longer too, tied back in a long braid, curls spilling out of it here or there. She used to do that on missions, to keep it out of her face, otherwise it was always loose, wild and free, just like her. She was still curvy, but lean too. Her curves had always been what drew the boys in when they were younger, even if she often covered them up with loose men's shirts and trousers, occasionally preferring them to dresses. But when she dressed up, she dropped jaws, and she knew it. Now she looked less fun-loving and more lethal; toned and ready for whatever came her way. His gaze dropped to the metal arm replacement, left mostly uncovered, whether due to heat or because she was tired of hiding it, he wasn't sure. But the star on her bicep had been scraped up bad, like she'd taken a key to the paint to get it off of her. He could just imagine her, sitting in a dirty hole of a motel room, crying into a bottle of scotch, angrily scraping at it with whatever was available, her teeth gritted against the sound of anguish crawling up her throat.

"What was I like?" she wondered, her voice softer then, curious but still guarded.

He raised his eyes up to meet hers, finding her head turned to stare at him with the same look-over he'd been giving her.

He scrubbed his fingers over his chin as he gave her question some thought. "You were happy. Fun, smart, you laughed a lot, and you… you loved dancing. Can't think of a time you wouldn't rather be dancing." He nodded, his brow furrowed. "You were always the life of the party. Everybody wanted to be your friend. And you were… You were loyal,  _fiercely_ protective, you were always trying to save me from some toss up… You always did. Always have." He stared at her searchingly. "Do you remember any of that?"

She peered back at him, her blue eyes so familiar and so…  _wrong_. So unlike what they'd always been.

He slid a hand across the bar toward her, wincing when she pulled back a little, her fingers flexing on the tequila bottle. "Darcy, I… I know it's going to be hard. I know it's probably confusing and, I don't know, terrifying maybe, but I'm here for you. I'll always be here for you. Just like you were for me, my whole life, I'm gonna be whatever you need. You wanna stay here, you wanna spend some time just  _nowhere_ , trying to figure it out, we can do that. Or if you wanna come home, stay with me, we can do that, too. The point is… I'm not going anywhere… Not without you."

She blinked at him then, her eyes suddenly going distant, darting to the side as if she were lost in a memory. "Not without you," she murmured.

And he remembered – Schmidt, the collapsing building, fire rolling, Darcy's tearful eyes as she refused to leave him behind.

"Yeah." He nodded, his hand finally finding hers, covering it, squeezing gently. "You remember that?"

Her brow furrowed and her face crumbled, a tear slipping out the corner of her eye. "I…" Her voice cracked and her mouth quivered. She sucked in a pained breath and shook her head, but he could see it, that vulnerability in her, that crack in the armor.

"Darcy."

She closed her eyes, squeezing more tears out, and he reached for her, his hand curving around her neck, kneading gently.

"It's okay," he told her. "I got you. I'm not going anywhere, all right?"

She bowed her head, the fight leeching from her, and finally, he pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her tightly, his face buried against her hair. She didn't smell like she used to; she smelled like sweat and tequila. But she was Darcy. She was alive and here and she was letting him hold her. That was enough.  _For now_ , that was enough.

He ran a gentle hand down her hair and raised his eyes, spotting Sam across the bar, standing by the door, giving him a nod, a faint smile pulling up his mouth.

Mission accomplished.

So far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was pretty exposition heavy, but the next chapters aren't. They're a lot more interaction between her and the other characters. Without anyone to bounce her thought process off, however, it was just a lot of internal stuff. This story's nearly finished on my computer; I have 7 of the 10 planned chapters finished that just need editing and a little more fleshing out, so updates should be pretty regular. This is a Darcy/Bucky story, so Bucky's around, I didn't erase him completely. This is a primarily Darcy-centric story though, so it will revolve more about her healing and growth and her friendships, but it does have a nice dose of Darcy/Bucky romance too. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you can, please leave a review. They're my lifeblood!  
> \- **Lee | Fina**


	2. sun to my shadow

**ii.**

Steve had an apartment in Brooklyn and a spare bedroom she could call her own. She would be lying if she said the idea of calling anything hers wasn't completely foreign. Not even her body, her mind, was hers, or it hadn't been for too long.

Adapting to her new situation proved a slow process. While she'd agreed to go with him, to  _live_  with him, she was constantly skittish and angry at herself for being exactly that.

Most of her time was spent on edge, eyeing the windows, flinching at every little sound. She expected HYDRA to appear at any given moment, burst through the door and tear her away, drag her back to the chair, plug her in and wipe her clean. It didn't matter how much Steve or Sam told her it wasn't going to happen, the fear remained.

She had a love/hate relationship with her closet, filled with the few loose, dark t-shirts she'd allowed Steve to buy for her. Her wardrobe could be described as dark and functional, and that was about it. The closet operated more as a hiding place than anything else. Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly nervous, she could hole up inside for hours. Close the doors and sink into the shadows until her breathing regulated, her skin stopped prickling, and the overwhelming feeling of being too out in the open would fade.

Other days, the walls felt like they were closing in on her. The phantom feeling of being in a cryo-chamber would sneak up on her and suddenly she couldn't stand it. Her chest would tighten and her lungs would burn as she struggled to breathe and get warm. She clawed at the walls, booted feet kicking at the door despite the fact that she could, quite easily, just reach up and open it for herself. The fear consumed her to the point of irrationality, eventually causing her to shut down completely.

Steve found her like that all too often, curled up in a corner of the closet, her head buried against her arms, knees pulled tight to her chest, eyes pinched closed.

"Darcy, it's okay… Hey, you're not with them, you're with me… C'mon, open your eyes, look around, it's okay, you— you're  _free_ now."

The very idea felt impossible, and  _yet_ …

His voice was soothing; distant at times, like it was coming through a tunnel. But eventually, fractions of sentences and singular, floating, familiar words would sink in and reach her, pull her out of that panicked haze and draw her back from the edge.

And finally, she would see the light in front of her…

Scrambling from the dark, she pressed herself against him, face buried at his neck, breathing in the warm, spicy scent of the soap he used. It wasn't like before, a hint of a memory that tickled her senses. This soap was new,  _modern_ , but it was familiar enough that it was still a comfort.

Her arms wrapped around his waist, fingers digging into his back. He held her tightly, murmuring soothing nonsense against her hair; he would do that for hours, if necessary. No matter how many times it happened, he always found her, always pulled her back. It scared her as much as it comforted her. And when exhaustion inevitably swamped her, the fear finally leeching from her tightly wound frame, he picked her up and carried her to her bed, laying her down gently, only to spend the next few hours in a state of tense waiting.

"Don't you get tired of it?" she wondered, tears still wet on her cheeks, her hair tangled, sweat clinging to her skin.

He sat on the floor, back against her bedside table, his knees up, arms resting atop them. Silence answered her, nothing but the oddly lulling sound of traffic outside the building to fill the room around them. Honking horns and humming engines, the distant noise of a neighbor's television shrieking with infomercials.

"When we were kids," he finally said, his voice pitched low, "I used to get sick a lot. You remember that?"

She nodded faintly, the pillowcase under her cheek feeling rough and damp.

"Well, when I'd get sick, my ma, she'd hole me up. Cover me in blankets, try to keep the chill out, feed me broth and water, always worried that this was it… This was the one that finally took me…" A muscle in his jaw ticked as he turned his gaze down to the floor. "And you'd come over, every time. You were never worried you'd get sick too. Never treated me any different. You'd just sit there on the floor beside me and you'd talk."

A huff of a laugh escaped him, smile upturning the corner of his mouth. "You could talk for hours. About what school was like that day or something funny your sister did. Or you'd read to me. Anything you could get your hands on. You'd read until the pages were falling out..." He looked both wistful and sad. "You never gave up on me, Darce. And there were a lot of times that even Ma thought I was throwin' in the towel..." He turned to her then, his eyes bloodshot and heavy. "What I'm sayin' is… I'm here with you. You're always gonna have me. Doesn't matter what happens. All right?"

She stared at him, searching his face for any hint that he was lying, but there was none. Just sincerity. It was a bold move, such open vulnerability, but that was just his way.

So she released her grip on the edge of the bed, where she'd been unconsciously gripping the sheet too tightly, and she turned her hand over. He let out a choked noise and reached up, taking her hand and squeezing gently. And as she drifted off to sleep, she felt safe, because she knew he'd never let go.

* * *

"What was she like?" she wondered, curled up on the couch, wrapped in a throw blanket, a cup of steaming coffee in reach. The sun was crawling across the living room floor and peeking up the wall, casting shadows off the reaching, green arms of a plant hanging from the ceiling.

Steve sighed from his seat in the arm chair across from her. He always sat in view of the window to remind her they—  _she_  was safe. A steaming cup of coffee lay in reach; it was his Captain America mug, the one Sam gave him.

Shuffling his newspaper, he flipped an edge down and raised an eyebrow. He never liked it when she referred to 'Darcy' as someone separate from herself. "What do you mean?"

"What did she do?" Her mouth screwed up. "For…  _fun_?"

"You… I don't know." He dropped the paper to his lap and reached for his coffee. "You liked to dance. You came with me to my art classes. You didn't care for pencil drawing. You liked charcoal; you said it made you feel closer to it."

"To what?"

He paused. "Life, I guess. I think you liked how messy it was. Because people are messy.  _Life_ is messy. So if you got charcoal on your shirt or your face, it was just part of the process, part of capturing it all."

She hummed, her brow furrowed. And then, after a moment, after she swallowed any reluctance she felt, she wondered, "Do you have any…? Charcoal?"

He tried to hide it behind his coffee mug, but it showed in his eyes as he smiled. "Yeah. I can find some for you."

She dropped her head down to the couch once more, and stared at the window sill, watching the sun continue its climb.

* * *

Steve was careful with her, constantly aware that she was  _recovering_. She simultaneously appreciated and loathed it.

Some days it seemed each step forward was met with three steps back. She would have good nights, where she managed to sleep the whole way through, and good days where she didn't flinch any time she walked too close to a window or jump at any random noise. Occasionally, he could coax her into going outside, for a jog around the block or a walk down the road to Goldie's Gym, where she could work her frustration out on a few weight bags.

She liked those days; she could feel a sort of relief spreading through her, making her very bones feel lighter. She could feel her mouth crack open on a smile or her breath hitch as she let loose a rusty laugh. Those were the days where she could  _feel_ the progress. Where the shadows didn't feel armed and the stiff length of her body relaxed.

But then there were the other days, when everything was too loud and close and unfamiliar for her to handle. When her skin felt too tight and her clothes too loose and her body too under-protected. She would lose herself in memories, lose sight of where she was or who she was or what she was doing. And she would panic, babbling to herself or hiding or breaking down in the shower, unwilling to move even after the water had turned a terrible, icy cold.

Those days hurt. Those days felt debilitating. Like there was no hope, no chance of moving forward, no use in striving for a recovery that was too out of reach.

To counter that feeling, Steve told her stories. He had so many. He could talk from sun up 'til sundown, just telling her about their friendship; about who she was; the family, a mother and sister, that she left behind. He told her about their team, The Howling Commandos, about Peggy Carter and the date they never got to have. He was a font of information, and some of it stuck. Some of it sparked the memories to match, but some of it felt too far away, like someone else had lived it, and she just couldn't imagine herself doing or saying the things he told her she did.

Darcy Lewis both was and wasn't the Winter Soldier. There were parts of her that fit; her 'do whatever it takes' attitude worked with who HYDRA wanted her to be, they just twisted her to do their bidding. They stripped away the part of her that was stubborn; that questioned orders; that understood there was a line between right and wrong, fine as it could sometimes be. They told her she was doing the right thing, that it was all for the greater good, and then they put a muzzle on her so she wouldn't ask more than what they were willing to give.

She wondered sometimes, if there was a middle ground. Not wholly Darcy but not wholly the Asset either. And then she wondered if that was okay. If Steve would accept that.

She wasn't an idiot. She knew that when he looked at her, he saw who she was. He wanted her to become the Darcy of his past, still fresh faced and innocent in his memory. But she knew that wouldn't happen. Whoever she was, she wasn't that woman, not entirely. And though she was still learning who she was, she didn't think she was entirely the Winter Soldier either. She was someone else. Someone still piecing herself together. A new her. Carved out of two other hers.

She wondered who the final draft would be, and if Steve would, or could, love and support whoever she was when she became her. She hoped so.

* * *

As time went on, more and more came back. But as it did, so came the nightmares.

Every night, she woke up in a cold sweat, screaming, ready to fight her way out. Sometimes it was ice, crowding in all around her, snow burying her in a frozen grave. Other times it was the things she'd done, people she'd fought and killed, blood endlessly dripping from her fingers, like a flood threatening to drown her. It all ended the same, with her lurched up in bed, knife in hand, eyes blind to reality, swiping and attacking.

More than once, her vision cleared to find herself pinning Steve to the floor…

She was holding the knife so tightly that it made her palm ache, the serrated edge pressed to the throat of her enemy. Promises of pain and suffering spilled from her lips in rushed, angry Russian. Her vision was hazy, cloudy around the edges, and though some part of her told her to attack and destroy, another part of her, very tiny and quiet, whispered to pause, to question, to take stock of the situation.

Slowly, her eyes began to clear, meeting the wide, blue gaze of her adversary.

"Darcy," he rasped, gently reaching up to wrap his hand around her wrist. "Can you hear me?"

She gave a short, precise nod.

"Do you know who I am?"

Her brow furrowed, head tipped to the side.

"I'm not your enemy." He pressed against her wrist, and she allowed her arm to retract very slowly. "I'm your friend." He searched her eyes. "I'm your—I'm your  _friend_ , Darcy. It's  _Steve_."

She blinked then, quicker and quicker, and she sucked in a sharp breath, her hand abruptly releasing the knife. She scrambled backwards, tearing away from him, fumbling and crawling until she was pressed into a corner of her bedroom, her head turned away. She pulled her knees up and buried her face there; she wanted to be small, so small that no one could find her or hurt her. She wanted to curl up so tightly that she disappeared into herself.

Her head shook as the tears returned. She was so tired of this. So tired of waking up to find herself like this, to find him under her, waiting to die, like a pig to slaughter. He could fight back, but he rarely did, not like he should. And that terrified her, more than he could possibly know.

"It's okay, hey, come on… You're okay, Darcy. I've got you," he said, wrapping his arms around her tightly, soothing her.

She wanted to shake him, to tell him to stop wasting his time on her. She was a dog who'd been beaten and kicked too many times; there was no recovery for her. But she'd said it before, more times than she could count, and he wouldn't hear it.

For that, some part of her frigid heart loved him.

* * *

"You tired?" Sam wondered as he leaned back in the arm chair he was sitting on, clicking through the channels, never settling on just one.

Darcy looked over at him from where she was sitting in the corner of the couch, a blanket wrapped around her. There was a journal on the table, waiting, mocking her. "Are you asking because I look tired or because Steve said I haven't been sleeping?"

He snorted. "Both."

Her mouth faintly turned up on one side. She appreciated how blunt Sam could be. He never sugar-coated anything. "I don't like sleeping."

"You don't like sleeping or you don't like what happens when you sleep?"

She pursed her lips, eyes turned away for a moment, and then said, uncertainly, "I don't… like losing control."

He hummed, as if that made sense. "You know, some people think that if you talk about what happened, if you make your fears known, they can't hurt you anymore."

"Some people… or  _you_ people?"

He cracked a grin. "Me people."

She eyed him thoughtfully. "Sometimes when I wake up, I think I'm back there. Sometimes it's like the door to the cryo-chamber is opening and I… I startle so I start fighting. I don't  _see_ him, not really. I just know that he's there, he's in the room, and I have to… neutralize the threat."

"But you don't." He leaned forward in his chair a little. "It's happened a lot, but you never take him out. Why do you think that is?"

"I… I recognize him, I think. I know it's him somehow."

"That's good."

"Is it?" She turned to look at him sharply. "The odds can only favor you for so long. Eventually something snaps, and with my luck, it'll be Steve's neck."

He half-smiled gently. "Look, you're right, you've got a lot you're still working through, and you're nowhere near healed. But… I think if it came down to it, you'd snap  _your_  neck before you snapped his."

Her jaw ticked as she turned her gaze away, back to the journal he'd given her the first day he visited her. It was half-full already, of fragments of thoughts or memories jotted down in her slanted writing. "I hope you're right," she murmured.

He didn't reply, but he did find a show he knew she liked.

 _Dog Cops_.

* * *

The woman that visited that fateful night was not one she knew personally. They had never met, not really. But she had seen her, heard about her, and at some point, the woman had earned Steve's trust.

Maria, he called her. Maria Hill. Former SHIELD agent and Nicholas Fury's right-hand woman…

"She needs to be deprogrammed."

She could almost hear Steve's teeth grinding before he answered stiffly, "You're not touching her."

"Steve,  _listen to me_ , she is a  _bomb_. If you don't do something about what HYDRA indoctrinated her with, she could go off at any time…" Hill pressed. "She's dangerous and deadly enough to be a serious problem."

"I hear what you're saying, honestly, I do, but there is no way she'll let anyone close enough to do what you're saying… The chair that they used to do this, it  _hurt_ …"

Hill sighed. "I understand that, but—"

" _No_. You don't hear her screaming every night. You don't have to convince her to get sleep when she's stayed up for four days straight because even just the nightmares of that chair hurt her so much that she is  _terrified_ of closing her eyes and waking back up with nothing and no one. I won't put her through that again."

"I know you're worried—"

She decided she liked this Maria Hill. She stayed calm even in the face of an emotional and righteous Steve. Her memory was still a little spotty, but she had enough current experience with him that she knew that took guts.

"That's it," he told her sternly. "I won't talk about it again."

"But—"

"Get out."

"Steve—"

" _Now_."

There was a sigh, and then the front door closed.

She gave it a minute before she stood from the floor where she'd been listening at her bedroom door and walked silently down the hall. She found him in the living room, sitting on the couch, his head buried in his hands, fingers tugging at his hair. Crossing the room, she took a seat beside him.

He raised his head abruptly, wiping at his face quickly. "Hey…" He sighed as he looked her face over. "Heard that, huh?"

She stared at him thoughtfully. "I could do it."

He shook his head. "Darcy… It would be painful, and it… it wouldn't change some things. The nightmares, they might not go away."

"But what she was saying, about being dangerous, she's not wrong… I am. And because you love me, you won't do what you have to if I'm a liability." She told him it simply, emotionless, even if a part of her wanted very much to be emotional.

"You just need more  _time_ …" he insisted. "You just—"

"I was their dog and now I'm off-leash. I'm enough of an asset that if they ever get the chance, they'll try to bring me back in. For all we know, they equipped me with a word trigger. My memory's not good enough yet to tell you either way."

"There's a chance they might not have."

"That's not a chance we can take."

"Darcy—"

"What would  _she_  do?" She turned to look at him. "If she thought she might hurt you."

He frowned at her.

"You know she'd do this. She wouldn't risk you. I've already hurt you too much."

"You haven't—"

"I could kill you," she told him glibly, staring him in the eye. "We both know I'm right."

"But you wouldn't. I  _know_ you."

"You know her."

" _Darcy_ —"

She covered his hand with hers, squeezing, and took a deep breath. "I'm not saying it doesn't scare me. It… scares the  _shit_ out of me." Her chin wobbled as she licked her dry lips. "I… I never want to go back to that place, to that chair. I don't know what it'll take, to deprogram me, but if it means I won't hurt you… If it means I might get a chance to be more like  _her_ … Then I'll do it."

He swallowed tightly, staring down at her, emotion brimming in his eyes. "This has to be your choice… If you don't want it, if it hurts, if you ever want to stop… Say the word. I'll stand behind you every step of the way."

Her lips curled up faintly. "Just me and you, huh? Partners 'til the end."

He smiled then, that heartbreaking smile of his that she hoped, one day, wouldn't be so devastatingly sad, and leaned over, cupping the back of her head as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. He used to do that a lot, she remembered, when they were the same height and he was his skinny-self.

"'Til the end," he agreed, hugging her to his side.

It was nice, she thought, having someone she could trust.

* * *

Deprogramming hurt. Almost as much as programming had.

There were times, more than she could count, where she wanted nothing more than to quit. She wanted to curl up in a ball and sink into the floor and forget everything. Hide in Steve's apartment, curled up on his couch, watching Dog Cops with Sam, where it was safe and quiet and nothing and no one could touch her.

But then she looked at Steve, fidgeting behind the glass, watching her with rising concern. She stared at him, worried and terrified, and she remembered all those nights she woke up, ready to kill him,  _eager_ to even, and she knew she had to keep going.

She wouldn't be their pawn. She wouldn't be their weapon. She would be her own person. She would be whoever she wanted to be. No more leash or collar or anything.

She would be free.

* * *

"So I've been thinking…"

Darcy looked up at Sam as he sat on the gym floor, gloved hands resting on his knees as he took a break. "Uh oh…" she teased, mouth quirking as he laughed.

"Nah, nothing like that." He pulled off one of his gloves with his arm tucked under the other, and let it fall to the mat beneath him as he grabbed up his water bottle, spraying his mouth. He swished it around a moment before swallowing and then nodded at her. "You're just about done that journal I got you."

She shrugged. "It's mostly a dream log, I think. Somewhere to keep track of things I remember, find out if they're real or not."

"Uh huh. And what about all the other stuff?"

"What stuff?"

"Writing it down is good. It helps. But sometimes you need to talk."

"I talk."

"Not to just me and Steve. We're biased. We're your friends."

Her chest warmed up a little, but she rolled her shoulders in an effort to ignore the feeling. Steve was always quick to remind her that he wasn't going anywhere and he was her best friend, she was used to it. Sam hadn't been reluctant in offering friendship, but he didn't say it as often as Steve did. It wasn't so long ago when friendship seemed an impossible, even incomprehensible, idea, and now here she was.

"So what are you suggesting?" she asked, looking down at him, one gloved and one metal hand on either of her hips.

"I know someone… A psychologist that works primarily with soldiers recovering from PTSD. He comes highly recommended. He moved his practice out here last year and, if you want, I could see about setting something up so you'd talk to him, see if it's a good fit." He held his hands up. "No pressure to work with him, you make the choice if he's the right guy or not. But I think it could help."

She pursed her lips, brow furrowed in consideration.

"Just think about it. You don't need to decide now."

She nodded shortly; she would give it some thought. And then she held a hand out for him to take. "Come on, you've rested enough."

Groaning, he took her hand. "I need some normal friends. Friends who get tired and take breaks and know what muscle cramps feel like."

She rolled her eyes. "Your jab is sloppy. We're going to fix it."

"Yes, ma'am," he joked, but grabbed up his glove and got into position all the same.

* * *

Eventually, she agreed to see Sam's suggested psychologist. While the deprogramming worked, she was still having nightmares. And her memory was still too close to Swiss cheese to be of any comfort. As much as the memories sometimes hurt, she still wanted to remember them. They were hers, and she refused to be blind to her own history.

There were other things she needed to work on too. Her paranoia, for one, although she was fairly sure that wasn't quite as exaggerated as some people ( _Sam_ ) thought. For an ex-Russian assassin that had once been brainwashed and frozen for years at a time, she thought she had plenty reason to be paranoid.

"I'm not saying they aren't comin' for you, but you didn't need to scare that old lady in the grocery store… That's all I'm sayin'. I said it, it's out there, you do with that what you want."

She scoffed at him. "I stared at her. I can't help it if she scares easy."

"You  _'stared'_  at her?" Sam snorted. "More like  _glared_  at her. She was about to reach for her Life Alert, all right? She was three seconds away from a heart attack."

Rolling her eyes, she stirred her spoon in her coffee. "She looked suspicious to me."

"Really?  _Suspicious_. What was it? The adult-sized diapers or the Metamucil in her cart that tipped you off, huh?"

When she grinned at him, it was all teeth. "Both. And the .44 she kept in her purse."

His eyes widened as he stared at her, mouth ajar. Standing from her seat, she winked at him, and left the kitchen for the living room, taking her coffee with her.

"You hear this, Steve?"

"She does have a point. You can't judge a book by the cover," Steve returned, grinning at her as she took a seat across from him in the arm chair, folding her legs under her, the sun creeping over her knee.

"This lady was at least 70…" Sam argued, joining them.

"Technically, I'm 98," Steve returned.

He was greeted with eye-rolling and grumpy muttering.

She hid her smile behind her coffee cup, enjoying the feeling of belonging that swept over her at the oddest times.

* * *

It was five months in when she met the first member of Steve's team. Thor was a large man with a booming voice and a wide, friendly smile. She wondered if it was because he saw few people as a threat and so had no fear of her, or if he was simply that warm to everyone, former assassins included.

"It is an honor to meet you, Lady Darcy. Steven has told me many stories of your childhood together. A friendship for the ages, defying time and circumstance." He held an arm out to her and she took it, her hand braced on his broad forearm. "I am glad that he has found you. I understand the importance of having one's shield brother close at hand."

There was something sad about him, she noticed; it clung to the edges of his face. Shadows that spoke of pain and loss and grief. As her arm fell back to her side, she crossed both behind her back. "Have you lost yours?" she wondered. "Your… shield brother?"

"A brother, yes." He nodded gruffly. "Perhaps not in blood, but always in heart. And I fear I lost him long before he was truly gone."

She tipped her chin down. "Sometimes what you think is lost has a way of coming back." Her eyes wandered toward Steve and then back.

"Some miracles cannot be duplicated, but I thank you for your kind words." He waved a hand to his side. "Steven tells me that you are well trained and that you tire of beating him so easily."

She smiled, letting out a faint huff of laughter. "That's one way of putting it."

"If you are willing, perhaps I can offer a more difficult challenge."

She glanced at his biceps and then took in the sheer size of him, before she nodded. "You can try."

A warm, encouraging laugh left him. "I admire your confidence. Let us put it to the test."

Unsurprisingly, she quite liked Thor.

* * *

Her therapist was a tall, broad, black man with salt and pepper hair and square glasses. His cheeks were round and his jaw well defined under the well-kept beard he wore. The gold type of the name plate on his desk read Dr. Charles M. Richards. The M, she knew, stood for Malcolm, as she'd refused to meet with him until she had a full background check done on him courtesy of Steve and his connections.

Richards had a wife, Symone, a college professor; two sons; and three granddaughters. He was well-liked by his peers and had a nearly spotless record during the entirety of his career. He had a few too many parking tickets for never putting enough in the meter, but other than that, there were only a few hiccups along the way, all of which fell on the right arm of social justice and human rights, so she had few worries he was HYDRA. Still, in the end, it was really his eyes that sold her; a warm, golden brown that spoke of wisdom and kindness.

"How are you feeling today?"

He never used names. Never slipped up and called her 'Darcy.' She wondered sometimes, if Sam told him not to, that it made her uncomfortable. She was getting used to it, between Steve and Sam and Thor's unfailing use of 'Lady Darcy.' But with others, with people she didn't consider to be her friends, it got her back up, like some part of her didn't think they had a right to be so informal with her. Sometimes she still expected people to address her indirectly, to talk about her as The Asset or Winter Soldier. But Steve, Sam and Thor each worked hard to include her, to remind her that she was a part of, even if she didn't always feel like she was.

Steve was always eager to have her around. He encouraged her to join him on his morning jogs or to spar with him at Goldie's gym. Sometimes she indulged him, but other times she needed space, needed a breather. Not from him, not exactly. She had just gotten so used to being on her own, in the background, only called on when she was needed, that it still felt overwhelming to have him right there. He was always bringing her forward to stand at his side, an equal to him, someone to be proud of. He showed her off not as an object but as a friend he was overjoyed to have back in his life. Where she still felt like a shadow, he was the sun, and sometimes he was too bright for her.

"Tired," she answered shortly.

Richards' pencil scratched at the paper of his log book. "From lack of sleep or something else?"

"I'm still having nightmares, if that's what you're asking."

She stared at him a long moment, and felt both relief and disappointment when he met her gaze without flinching. The scientists of Before always flinched, shivering as if the ice in her veins could leap forward and impale them. The good doctor had no such worry.

There was a time when the fear of her handlers was a comfort; it was a reminder that, if she needed to be, she could prove dangerous. But perhaps a lack of fear on Richards' part wasn't a sign that she wasn't dangerous, but instead that she didn't  _need_ to be.

"Last night?'

She nodded.

"Can you elaborate?"

"It was the snow again. It buried me. I couldn't breathe. It… It was sinking into my skin, filling my mouth and my nose and burning my eyes." Her hand flexed on her knee, metal fingers shifting under the black leather glove she wore. "And then there was only dark. The box. Nothing but a window looking out on an empty lab. I wanted the light, but I knew that when it turned on, I would be put in the chair again." She swallowed tightly, her throat dry. Blinking quickly, she shook her head. "It's recurring."

"What do you think the snow represents?"

She stared at him, her lips pursed. " _Snow_."

She couldn't blame him, really. She couldn't tell him her whole history. He had no idea who she really was, the things she'd done. It was too dangerous for that. He thought her name was Darcy Wilson, that she'd been struggling with amnesia and PTSD from what caused it.

"Yes." He plucked his glasses from his nose and rubbed at the bridge, the imprint of his glasses left behind on his skin. "But why snow? Why are you buried beneath it?"

Because she had been. She'd fallen from the train, rolled down a hill, and lay buried in the snow, half-dead, arm missing, until Zola and his people had found her, replaced her arm, and turned her into who she was now, sticking her in a fridge to be defrosted at their discretion.

"Fear," she told him instead. "Of what happened, of who I was, of who I could be."

He nodded. "And who could you be?"

She raised her eyes to meet his and felt a shard of ice bleed through her veins. "No one good."

He met her eyes once more and hummed as she raised her chin an inch higher.

It was good, she decided, that he didn't reek of fear as the scientists had. Here, she was just a person. Someone who needed and deserved help. And he was going to make sure she got it. Not the way Steve or Sam or even Thor did. Richards was neutral. The only thing he got out of her recovery was a job well done. She couldn't disappoint him. She could only improve under his guidance. His only expectation was that she try, so try she would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> author's note: in editing this chapter, it basically doubled in size because i really wanted to set a foundation for the relationships between darcy and herself, darcy and steve, and darcy and sam. there's not a lot of female friendship yet, this chapter was actually pretty male-heavy, but that'll be coming in next chapter with the inclusion of natasha (and possibly pepper). there's also a nod to maria in this chapter, who will become more important along the growth of the story too.
> 
> also, next chapter will have more dialogue. this chapter was more of an exploration of darcy's thought process as she starts to acclimate to her new situation and the people she's letting closer to her. next chapter we're off to avengers tower, where we'll see bucky! and jane! so i hope you're looking forward to that! :)
> 
> thank you all for reading and for your kind support. feel encouraged to leave a review if you can! i'd love to hear what you think about darcy's thinking and her friendships and the little bit of growth you see in this chapter!


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